


A Well of Remembrance

by Autumn_Llleaves



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-17
Updated: 2015-03-17
Packaged: 2018-03-13 08:30:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3374741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Autumn_Llleaves/pseuds/Autumn_Llleaves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four years after the end of the war, Sandor sees a girl at an inn on the Kingsroad, who calls herself Alayne and remembers nothing but two of eighteen years of her life…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sandor

The Lightbringer Inn was one of the best, even for the Kingsroad in its Crownland part. It boasted several sorts of excellent wine, good spacious rooms, delicious food – even in the end of the winter, when the supplies were thin. It also boasted sweet pretty girls, many of them redheads (for the inn's name). That was the reason that Sandor Clegane was here.

Since the Quiet Isle ( _since Winterfell, and you bloody well know it_ , the inner voice corrected) he had been much less interested in whores. Even at this inn, he had rarely done anything more than fondling absentmindedly this redhead or that.

The girls and the innkeeper knew it. The former Hound always left a nice share of coins, and it didn't matter for them that he paid for practically nothing but looking. Looking at every wench, anxiously, searchingly… and every time disappointed. Sometimes his gaze lingered longer – if the girl in question had blue eyes or pale skin or something else that caught his eye, awakened memories and a long-abandoned hope…

Thanks to this inn and its redheads, Sandor's feelings for Sansa Stark were now much less a secret. Many wondered openly why he had resumed his service to House Lannister, and to Tyrion, who used to be Sansa's husband, of all people.

Sandor had heard all kinds of rumors concerning himself. Most of them disgusting. Some said that he had raped and killed Sansa at Saltpans and was trying to atone for it. Some spoke that he had had an affair with Sansa, secretly staying in King's Landing after Blackwater, and that Tyrion, incapable of bearing children or too busy with mistresses, had only encouraged it.

The latter one got so popular that Tyrion and his new sworn shield were nicknamed the Two Widowers of the West. The more the merrier it became; the last time Sandor heard it people said of him and Tyrion bedding Sansa together.

_I want to rip their throats apart. I want to throttle every single one of them who dares to blacken the little bird's memory. How I wish sometimes to resurrect the Hound._

In the beginning, to be honest, he thought pretty much the same about the dwarf. It was hard to believe, after all: the lustiest (half)man in the Kingdoms not touching the loveliest girl ever born.

Much time had passed since then. Time of desperate and unsuccessful search for Sansa, from Beyond-the-Wall to the southernmost coast of Dorne, in the Free Cities, anywhere they could. Nothing. After Joffrey's death, Sansa Stark had mysteriously vanished from the world.

Sandor remembered all the hope swelling in his heart as they had heard of a Stark lady in Braavos. Only to have their hopes crushed – it was the wolf-girl, Arya.

She was now working as an assassin. Very suitable for her. But even she had no idea of her sister's fate.

Tyrion Lannister was almost as distraught as Sandor himself. The old enmity between them faded slowly, giving way to an unlikely sort of reluctant friendship formed over their shared grief for Sansa.

"Wine, m'lord?' the innkeeper asked nervously. She was still fearful of him.

"Yes," Sandor threw the money on the table.

"Dornish red, as usual?"

"As if you don't know."

"Why, we have other good things here. Very good. Arbor gold, Lyseni light…"

"It's for weaklings. Do your job, woman."

Bowing hurriedly, the innkeeper poured the wine.

The door opened, and a group of young squires, already rather drunk, stumbled into the room.

"Hey, Shenly!" one of them yelled for the innkeeper. "Arbor gold, best quality!"

"Come along, Allie dear, don't be shy," another pushed a slim girl into the room. "You'll love it here."

"I don't care," the girl's blank voice replied. Sandor almost choked on his drink. He stared at her, unbelieving.

After so many months, he still saw clearly. It was her. The little bird. For some unknown reason, her beautiful hair was dyed walnut brown, she wore an awful torn dress, but it was her no doubt.

Almost knocking over the table, Sandor stepped to the group, readying his sword.

"Back away from her, in the name of your Queen!" he roared. "It's Lady Sansa S… Lannister!"

The squires pretty much fell back, not wishing to deal with the Hound. Sansa just looked up with uncomprehending and empty, so terribly empty eyes. _Doesn't she recognize me?_

"B-but… sorry, m'lord…" one youth stammered. "We never meant… to… She said her name was Alayne Stone…"

"It is," the girl suddenly said with quiet assurance. "I am Alayne Stone."

Grabbing her hands, Sandor pulled her outside, leaving the innkeeper to deal with those idiots.

"Sansa," he insisted. "Little bird, there's nothing to fear anymore. I will not hurt you. No need to hide your name."

"I don't know you," she whimpered, but didn't struggle. "I am sorry, ser. So sorry. I only remember th-the past two years."

"What?" he was incredulous, searching for some trick – but she appeared to be honest. "Tell me, little bird."

"I-I… the first thing I remember – when I woke up in some poor room. There was a man there, he said he was my father Petyr Baelish…"

"Liar!" Sandor hissed. Baelish was finally caught and executed several months ago.

"Y-yes, I think so too, though he told me a lot of my previous life… that my mother was a fisherman's daughter…"

"How elegantly humorous," Sandor commented. He wanted to dig Baelish up and kill him two or three times again.

"H-he said that he saved me, but I defied him, and he paid the maester to make a memory-losing draught for me. He did things to me… that I believe fathers don't do… he kissed me and made me spread my legs…"

Sandor cursed under his breath and cradled the shivering little bird in his arms. She didn't seem to mind.

"He told me we were on the run, and a few months ago he left me at a peasant house and never came back. Then they told me he was dead and I wasn't his daughter and threw me out. I've been on my own ever since."

Hardly able to speak, beside himself with fury, Sandor groaned:

"Oh, little bird."

All of a sudden, she looked straight at him. _No longer afraid of scars, are you?_

"I remember…" she whispered. "The cloak. I was scared, so scared, and you wrapped your cloak around me."

"Yes," he nodded quickly. "I remember it too."

She frowned, as if literally trying to grasp the lost memories.

"And you wanted me to sing. It was green. The fire outside, it was green. And you kissed me."

Kissed? Whatever Sandor had expected, it wasn't that. He didn't think before he blurted out:

"It didn't happen."

Sansa's face fell:

"The memories… the things Baelish told me about my childhood… I tried so hard to remember… and couldn't… they were false. Now you insist that you know me… and these ones are false too!" she broke into sobs.

 _You damned brute. The little bird is found and still all you can do is frighten her to death again._ He caressed her hair, resisting the growing urge to grasp her face in his hands and kiss her senseless.

"Hush, girl, it's not your fault. It was only the kiss that you remembered wrong. Everything else was absolutely as it truly happened. The song, the green fire. This was real. Mayhaps you'd recall my name?"

She frowned harder still, her nose wrinkled:

"N-no… forgive me, ser…"

"I'm no ser," he said, more of habit. "My name's Sandor Clegane."

"I feel good with you," she confessed. "Safe. I've never felt safe."

"You'd be even safer soon, little bird. Come, I shall take you to your husband."

"I had a husband? I couldn't! Please don't lie to me!"

"I never lie! You are married, to Tyrion Lannister."

"But when father… Petyr Baelish lay with me the first time… there was blood," she stuttered.

"Tyrion never did it," Sandor said, already carrying her to the stable where Stranger was waiting. He could hardly keep calm at the thought of that scoundrel Littlefinger even touching his little bird… it was worse than the thought of Joffrey touching her!

"I don't remember him at all," she said thoughtfully. Suddenly, as Sandor lifted her onto his horse, she turned to him, blushing and hesitant:

"S-ser… I mean… well…"

"Sandor will do fine."

"Sandor… could you…"

She felt sick, probably. What she must have lived through during her years on the run!

"Water?" he guessed at random. "Milk of the poppy?"

Sansa shook her head:

"No… I'm not sure… I w-would like…"

"What's this? Tell me anything."

"I would like you to kiss me!" she finally cried, blushing Lannister crimson.

Sandor was awestruck:

"Sansa?.."

"I want to remember," she said. "I… only have these memories of you that are true… I wish them all to be true."

There was no seduction or passion in her broken voice – only longing, and definitely not for the kiss itself.

"Tyrion wouldn't like it," he said, getting behind her on Stranger's back.

"I can't remember a glimpse of _him_!" she cried tearfully. "I do hope I will… but now…"

 _Not only a brute, but a fool,_ Sandor would have kicked himself. _You have dreamed of the little bird for seven years, and for once she wants you to kiss you, you back away. Buggering idiot. That might be the only chance you'll ever get. Tyrion will charm her with these grins and jests of his, and you will only stand by and look._

She was silent now, shivering and looking at him pleadingly.

Without a word, he leaned closer, cupped her cheek and pressed his lips to hers.

Her mouth was salty from her tears, lips soft and inviting. But when Sandor, firm to make the most of it, tried to spread them, Sansa clenched them tight together. He attempted to make her open her mouth, but it resulted in nothing but her freezing in his arms. The former Hound could feel her little heart fluttering in her chest.

 _Baelish,_ he realized, mustering whatever control he had left to pull away. Damn. It reminded her of Baelish.

"Thank you," she breathed, so quiet that he hardly heard it.

"Forgive me," he whispered back. _Not just for this, little bird. For everything. I doubt I'll ever have the sense to say it again._

The innkeeper came out:

"M'lord? Leaving already?"

He nodded briskly.

"Your wine, you didn't finish it…"

"Drink it for Lady Lannister's health," he said.

"M'lady," the woman curtsied uncertainly.

Sandor didn't listen to her further. He clicked his tongue, and soon Stranger was racing towards King's Landing faster than if the Others chased him.


	2. Sansa

It was odd, her new name. Sansa. Short and rustling, like a falling snowflake. It wasn't a bit like Alayne, a bastard's name, but a beautiful, melodic tune, just suitable for the distinguished lands such as the Vale of Arryn. Sansa was a stranger to her, an unknown highborn lady married to the Hand of the Queen, with hair the color of fire, as Sandor had said and she had seen herself after getting it washed with some peculiar sort of soap.

His face, with its horrible burns, did awaken some sort of vague recognition. About the cloak, and about the green fire and the kiss. _That never happened_. Sansa sighed: she was obviously too used to adapting to new memories that didn't exist. Of course, now it existed all right... She was grateful that he had kissed her without asking too many questions. Men were odd. When you were unwilling, they would always force themselves on you, but when you actually asked for a kiss, they would instantly suspect some trick. It seemed whores were the only ones allowed to push themselves forward. But Sansa didn't need a _kiss_ , she needed something to support her memory. The kiss itself was rather pleasant, with this man's hard burned lips feeling nothing like Petyr's slick ones, but when he tried to get into her mouth, exactly as Petyr did...

No matter. It was over quickly and Sandor made no more advances on her. In the first village they passed he bought her a separate horse, and upon reaching some minor castle he secured a carriage and a large enough escort for Lady Lannister. He himself continued to ride his enormous black stallion.

Sansa liked it better when he had been near her. He provided at least some security, she knew him more than she knew anyone else from her forgotten life. When she offered him a place in a carriage, he said:

"It's no place for a sworn shield."

Only when the escort stopped at inns or villages or castles could she talk to him.

"What is my husband like?" she asked Sandor on their first stop. "I have a headache now, so hard I've been trying to remember anything of him."

"He's a dwarf," he said bluntly. "A misshapen dwarf, with only his Lannister golden hair to boast of. That's so you don't faint from shock the first time you meet. But he is kind and honest, and I've come to value his friendship. Besides, women like him very much."

"Did I like him before?"

"No, little bird," he said, frowning. "You were married when you were but a child, you were frightened of marriage."

As it happened, they sent a raven from that first castle they had stopped by, and Tyrion Lannister rode out to meet them almost five miles from the gates of King's Landing. Sansa was very surprised when she saw him: everyone told her he was the richest man in Westeros, richer than the Queen (not counting her live dragons), but he rode with only a single other man by his side.

Sansa stepped out of the carriage to greet him and have a closer look at him. He was a dwarf, and an ugly one at that, but after the months she spent alone she was used to ugly visages. Tyrion had a charming smile, she realized, and his mismatched eyes looked at her with kindness.

"My lord husband," she curtsied as deep as she could. He bowed, without getting off his horse – this way, he was taller than her.

"Sansa," he put his arms around her, and for a moment she was frightened, waiting for _him_ now to kiss her or pull at her breasts like Petyr used to do. Tyrion did neither.

"Welcome back, my dear," he leaned away to look her in the eye. "We've all missed you. I hope King's Landing will turn out more friendly this time."

" _More_ friendly? _This_ time?" Sansa repeated. "Oh, my lord, I don't recall..."

"Still don't?" Tyrion was worried. "Clegane, does she remember anything at all?"

"She remembered the day when I put my cloak on her," Sandor reported. "And Blackwater. Not much of it, though."

The disappointment on her husband's face was plain, but he said nothing.

"Come, Sansa," he said. "Let's get to the palace. Your room's ready there, you will have a nice rest, as long as you like. It's adjoining with my room and Clegane's."

His companion, who was silent earlier, turned to him:

"Are you sure it's wise?"

"Putting my sworn shield in the next room? Nothing was ever wiser; he's one of the few people from this city for whom she has good memories."

Sansa, who was already getting back into the carriage, stood still. There was a flash in her mind, once again... bright, but not too bright... _Concentrate, now_! She felt her head breaking apart with her effort to grasp the memory. After what seemed like a fight, she won. Closing her eyes, she saw a luxurious red-and-gold bedchamber, and Tyrion pouring himself a cup of wine.

"It was!" she cried.

Everyone looked at her, and she felt ashamed but explained:

"I mean – my lord, I remember how you said it."

Now Tyrion's face brightened and Sandor looked away. _Are they competing over restoring my conscience?_

"Said what, Sansa?" Tyrion asked.

"Nothing was ever wiser, you said it. We were in a bedchamber, and you poured wine, and you said it."

"Correct, my dear. Do you mayhaps know what occasion that was?"

Sansa put her hands to her head, and thought, thought, _thought_ until she was sure her head would never be the same again. The only product of her effort was another vague vision, she wasn't certain with it...

"You said we won't dance," she described it. "Something about amusement, too."

"There, see?" he chuckled. "Your memory isn't as hopelessly lost as I feared. Tomorrow Sarella Sand is due to arrive here, and she's a most skilled healer. You'll have it all back in no time."

King's Landing itself seemed to Sansa a gigantic city. So many people, so many houses. The magnificent Red Keep, and the dragon. There were three in total, the handmaidens from her escort said, but Sansa only saw one. It was enough. A breathtaking black beast circling the sky, the rider's hair and dress two spots of white and red.

"The Queen," Tyrion commented as Sansa admired the dragon from the Keep's steps. "Adores to fly. Often leaving her Hand to tend to the matters on the ground."

"Shall I have to meet her, my lord?"

"Later, Sansa, when you're at least in a more stable condition and able to decide things yourself."

"Decide things, my lord?"

"Of course. There are many things to be settled. Your family, first and foremost. They are dying to hear any news of you. Let alone have you back."

"Family?" Sansa whispered.

"Your brothers. Brandon Stark of Beyond-the-Wall, Rickon Stark of Winterfell, Jon Snow of the Watch. Your sister, Arya, she resides in Braavos. Your cousin, Robert Arryn. Not to mention all the good-relations on my side. My niece and nephew used to be very fond of you."

"So many people…" Sansa whispered. 

"Don't you remember any of them?"

"N-no, my lord… I don't think…"

Tyrion sighed and patted her hands reassuringly. 

"Clegane!" he called. "Let's escort my wife to her room."

"D-don't I have to meet my relatives, my lord?"

"Tyrion," he smiled. "You call my sworn shield by name, you might as well do me the same honor. No, you don't have to meet them, especially since they're not here yet. Even Myrcella and Tommen won't arrive until tomorrow."

Feeling dizzy from all this poured on her in less than an hour, Sansa was relieved to lean onto Sandor Clegane's arm. 

"Bronn," Tyrion turned to his companion. "Tell Prince Aegon I'm not to appear on the council's evening meeting."

"I see," the man left. 

"That's my trusted… let's say, friend," Tyrion explained, with a twinkle in his green eyes. "Lord Bronn Stokeworth, formerly a sellsword. A sellsword still, if you ask me."

"Well, who isn't one in this world?" Sandor spoke from Sansa's other side.

"You, for example," the dwarf grinned. "Now, Sansa, don't listen to him."

"And to _him_ either," Sandor retorted. Though Sansa had a feeling that it wasn't a quarrel in the least, but a friendly banter.

Talking no more, they went down countless halls and corridors. Soon Sansa felt her head spinning. 

"You used to find your way in here even by night," Sandor said softly as he noticed her disorientation.

"By night?" Tyrion raised an eyebrow. "How do you happen to know it so well?"

"She was seeing Dontos at night," Sandor grumbled, and Sansa's husband nodded in somber understanding.

Dontos? Who in the Kingdoms was that one? Judging by the look on both men's faces, he was someone very dishonorable. Well, he couldn't have been her lover. Her first time was in Petyr's bed. 

The snakelike eyes and narrow face of Petyr Baelish appeared in front of her. Sansa rubbed her eyes, but the vision persisted. 

_He's dead. He won't hurt you now._

Still, she remembered it all too clear. How his nails scratched her when she refused to open her legs. How his lips felt like frog skin on her cheeks and neck. A wave of nausea swept over her. Suddenly it dawned on her that she'd have to do the same with Tyrion now… she was his wife…

"Sansa?" Tyrion clutched her hand. "What's happened?"

"You are white, little bird," Sandor steadied her.

"Petyr Baelish," she managed to mutter. "Oh… I saw him… Tyrion… Sandor… I saw him…"

Sandor murmured an impressive string of curses and helped Sansa to sit on some bench covered with cushions. Tyrion gently sat by her side:

"Sansa, my dear, it's over. He was executed right before my eyes. No one here will lay a finger on you."

She felt herself shaking as another fit of tears fell on her. 

"I will not be sharing your bed," her husband added. "Until you recover and wish for it yourself."

"Truly?" Sansa lifted her eyes. 

"Don't worry."

Relief swept over her, just as intense as the panic moments before.

After what seemed like ages, the trio finally made it to her bedchamber. Sansa gazed at it. So beautifully furnished! Such subtle decorations! She knew she was supposed to have been in rooms like this before, but practically all memories eluded her. 

A dark-skinned handmaiden was waiting there, who helped Sansa wash herself and dress into a fabulous white-silk nightgown, and then subtly disappeared. Sandor and Tyrion, who had been waiting outside, opened the door. 

"I hope it's all to your liking," Tyrion said. "Liddi – that's your maid, darling, she regretfully speaks little Common Tongue yet for now – will bring you breakfast tomorrow. Now… The door over there leads to my room, and the brown door next to the one we came in leads to Sandor's. If you have a nightmare or anything, just knock."

"Thank you," Sansa smiled faintly.

"Tomorrow I must be at the council 'til afternoon, but Clegane's off-duty."

Sansa turned to Sandor, who was still standing there impassively. 

"I… I hope it's not burdening you."

He shook his head, staring at her silently. Tyrion chuckled:

"Settled, then. Do you want anything, Sansa, or do you want to go straight to bed?"

Her head was so awfully heavy, as if made of lead. She murmured:

"To bed, my l… Tyrion. I'm exhausted."

"I'm going too, then," he softly kissed her hand. "Sweet dreams, my dear."

"Good night, Tyrion."

He retreated into the adjoining bedroom. Sansa extended her hand to Sandor:

"Good night, Sandor."

He didn't kiss the offered hand; only caressed it with his rough fingers for a few seconds.

"Little bird," he said quietly and walked away with heavy steps. 

Sansa leaned onto the enormous bed, wrapping herself into the covers and for the first time in her remembered life breathing freely and calmly.


End file.
